Page 49 of Hold the Line

He wheezes, his face turning red, eyes bulging with a mix of fear and drunken rage. “You think you are better than me? You are my blood. You will end up just like me. That loud American boy of yours? You will break him too. Just like I broke her.”

The words hit like a cheap shot, but I do not flinch. My grip tightens for a second, just enough to make him choke, before I shove him back harder against the frame. “I am nothing like you. And I never will be. Get the fuck off my property before I call the police and have you dragged back to Russia in cuffs.”

He spits at my feet, still struggling, but the fight is draining out of him as he realizes I am not the scared boy he used to terrorize. I hold him there a moment longer, letting him feel exactly how powerless he is now, before I release him with a hard push that sends him stumbling back down the porch steps.

“Vik…” Cole’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade, soft and worried. I hear the presents drop from his hands with a soft thud as both he and Lena appear at the bottom of the porch steps, their eyes wide at the scene in front of them.

I turn my head instinctively toward him, the need to make sure he is okay overriding everything for a split second.

My father takes immediate advantage. With a drunken snarl he lunges, flipping our positions with strength born of rage and alcohol. He slams me back against the opposite doorframe hard enough that the wood creaks, his forearm pressing across my throat as he gets in my face.

“You think you can keep her from me?” he spits. “And now this? This loud American whore is why you are weak. Look at you — pathetic. He will ruin you just like you ruined our family. You are no son of mine. Just a weak little boy hiding behind a pretty face and a hockey stick.”

My fist connects with his jaw with a sickening crack. He staggers, but I do not stop. I hit him again, and again, driving him back down the porch steps as years of suppressed rage pour out of me. “Do not speak about him,” I snarl between punches. “You do not get to say his name. You do not get to look at him. You are nothing. You will never touch my family again.”

My father tries to swing back, cursing and spitting blood, but I am bigger, stronger, and far more sober. I keep hitting him, lost in the violence, until strong hands suddenly grab me from behind — Cole and Lena both pulling me back, Cole’s voice cutting through the red haze.

“Viktor! Stop! He’s not worth it!”

I am breathing hard, my knuckles split and bloody, staring down at my father sprawled on the snow-covered ground, groaning and cursing. Cole’s arms are wrapped tight around my waist from behind, holding me back, his face pressed between my shoulder blades like he is trying to anchor me.

My eyes close for a single second as the weight of what just happened crashes over me.

Cole saw that. He saw me violent toward my own family. Sure, he has seen me throw hits on the ice — especially when someone dared to go after him — but never like this. Never outside the rink. Never this raw, this personal. The shame burns hot in my chest. I shake my head, the old fear rushing back in like poison. I was right all along. I should stay away from him. I will only take his light away, just like my father took hers. I am no better.

I sigh heavily and turn to face Cole, cupping his face with both hands, thumbs brushing over his cheeks even as my own hands are still trembling with leftover rage and blood. “Get inside, Cole.”

“Vik…” Cole whispers, his eyes searching mine, clearly seeing the darkness swirling there.

I tear my gaze away from him before I can drown in it. I bend down, grab the dropped presents from the snow, and gently but firmly push both Cole and Lena inside the house. My mother is standing just inside the doorway, one hand pressed to her mouth, staring out at her ex-husband bleeding in the snow with a mixture of horror and old, deep pain in her eyes.

The door clicks shut behind us, cutting off the cold and the sight of him. For a moment the house is silent except for the distant sound of my father cursing and stumbling away through the snow.

I stand there, and feel the weight of everything I have tried so hard to protect crashing down around me. Cole is watching me. Lena is watching me. My mother is watching the door like she is waiting for him to come back.

I can feel Cole watching me like a hawk, his eyes burning into the side of my face. It hurts more than the split skin because I know he can tell something is wrong. He always can. The shame and the fear twist tighter in my chest. I should have kept him away from this. From me.

Then my mother snaps out of her frozen state. She moves quickly, fussing over all three of us like we are still children who have come in from playing in the snow too long. “Come, come inside properly,” she says in Russian at first, then switches to careful, accented English as she notices Cole and Lena fully. “You must be freezing. And you — oh, your hand, Vitya. Let me see.”

Cole immediately reaches for my injured hand, trying to clean the blood with the sleeve of his own jacket, brow furrowed in concern. I gently pull it away from him, not wanting him to touch the mess I made. He frowns, hurt flashing across his face, but I cannot look at him right now. Not when I feel like I am one step away from proving every fear I have ever had about myself right.

My mother turns to Cole and Lena with a warm, if slightly shaken, smile. “I am Marina,” she says as she offers her hand first to Lena, then to Cole. “Viktor’s mother. It is so nice to finally meet you both. He has told me so much about you.”

Lena, bless her, is the only one who seems able to keep up with the moment. She takes my mother's hand firmly and smiles back, already chatting easily. “It’s wonderful to meet you too. I’m Lena, Cole’s sister. This is my brother Cole — the loud one Viktor keeps talking about.” She gently steers Cole forward with a hand on his back, giving him a little push like she knows he needs it. “Cole, say hi properly. Don’t just stand there looking like you saw a ghost.”

Cole blinks, still clearly spiraling, but manages a small, shaky smile as he shakes her hand. “Hi… it’s really nice to meet you, ma’am. Sorry about… all of this.”

My mother's eyes soften as she looks at him, then at me, and something like understanding passes over her face. She squeezes Cole’s hand a little longer than necessary. “No apologies needed. You are family now. Come, let us get you all warm and have some tea before we go to this big dinner. I made cookies. Lots of them.”

I stand there watching them, the ache in my chest only growing as Cole’s worried eyes keep flicking back to me. I do not know how to tell him I am terrified I will only bring darkness into his life the way my father brought it into hers.

We end up sitting down for tea and cookies in the small, warm kitchen. My mother moves around with quiet purpose, setting out plates and pouring tea like hosting guests after a violent confrontation is completely normal. Lena carries most of the conversation with easy, light-hearted chatter — asking my mother about her baking, about life in Ravensburg, about the little traditions she is trying to build in her new home. She is good at this. She fills the space without pushing, and I can see my mother slowly relaxing, a small smile appearing as she answers Lena’s questions and offers her another cookie.

Cole sits beside me, quieter than usual. He keeps stealing worried glances at me every few seconds, searching my face like he is waiting for me to break. I hate it. I hate that I put that look there.

Under the table, I reach for his hand. My fingers slide between his, gripping gently but firmly, stroking over his knuckles. Cole startles slightly, then squeezes back hard, like he was waiting for permission. Some of the tension in his shoulders eases, but the worry in his eyes does not fully disappear.

My mother notices but she says nothing about it. She simply pushes the plate of cookies closer to Cole with a gentle smile. “Try the ones with the jam. They were Vitya’s favorite when he was small.”